


The Crooked Thing

by voleuse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I whispered, 'I am too young,' / And then, 'I am old enough.'</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crooked Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Vague spoilers through _A Storm of Swords_. Title and summary adapted from William Butler Yeats's _Brown Penny._

** _i. wherefore I threw a penny_ **

The tourney is brightened by sun, and the sand is hot beneath Jaime's feet. Every fight could be a dance, and he leads them, every one.

One comes close--the laughing prince, Renly. Jaime is conscious of the picture they make, gold and dark blurring against each other. He can imagine Cersei's laugh above the crowd, and Renly's steel dares to kiss against him.

After the combat, he waves off congratulations, makes his way to the nearby stream. He strips his armor carelessly, dips his hands into the water. It is cool when he splashes it against his skin, droplets tracing aching muscles, washing the pain away.

"Well fought," Renly says, coming behind him. He sports a bruise against his cheek, result of a sharpish blow.

"My thanks," Jaime says, but he frowns. He could have been more careful. He could have defeated the prince without marring him. "My grace was half-lent by a worthy opponent."

The words are pretty and perhaps true. Renly laughs, and doffs his own tunic. He kneels next to Jaime, close, and bends his face to the water.

Jaime waits for him to emerge, for it is more than water that must soothe his temper.

** _ii. the stars had run away_ **

It is by chance that Jaime meets Robb Stark in the woods, the night before their fateful battle. He is restless, and knows even as the twigs snap behind him that he has been feckless.

The last time he had laid eyes on the him, Robb had been a mere stripling, a shadow of his lord and father. The man behind him, sword raised, is anything but a boy.

Jaime finds himself at a loss, and chooses guile to win the day. Instead of reaching for his sword, he raises both hands, blesses Robb with a spurt of applause. "Well met," he ventures, and the lack of honorific is punctuated by Robb's glare. "A fair battle you have waged, and won."

Robb advances, backing Jaime to the embrace of an oak. "I should behead you as you stand."

A multitude of retorts pass through Jaime's mind, but he discards them. Instead he nods against the steel at his throat. "If it were only justice that you seek."

The blade scratches his throat as Robb wavers. "It began that way." He lowers the blade, half an inch more.

Jaime pounces, slapping the blade with the flat of his hand, striking Robb with his fist. The sword clatters against branches, and Jaime has the advantage. He presses it, felling Robb with another blow, landing atop him to secure their positions.

He leans forward, touches heated skin with his lips. "A crown and a kingdom," he hisses. "Those are worth more than vengeance, I should think."

"Justice," Robb chokes out. "Beyond that due solely to me." He meets Jaime's eyes, and there is only defiance in his expression. Nay, determination.

Jaime loosens his hold on Robb, but only enough for breath. "Then perhaps," he murmurs, "we might come to terms this night."

And further surprise, for Robb smiles.

** _iii. the shadows eaten the moon_ **

Each time the fair knight Loras passes Jaime, his lip configures into something of a sneer. Never, of course, something so unseemly as to mar his demeanor. The intention, however, is evident in Loras's eyes.

Had they been of age, perhaps Jaime would have seen it as a challenge. As it is, he is weary, and Loras is naught but another drop of disrespect in the ocean. Jaime smiles at him, and Jaime ignores him.

Jaime is taken aback, then, when Loras appears in the doorway of his chambers. Though he does not draw his sword, Loras's hand rests on its pommel.

"Have you come to cry challenge?" he asks. He does not permit his sneer to emerge. The stump of his arm aches. "I'd say you might have the better of me."

Loras raises his chin, all pride, so Jaime continues.

"With the sword, I mean." He leans back on his couch, lets his gaze peruse Loras's worth. "I would wager there's little else in which you could best me."

Loras stalks forward, his mouth open to retort. His color is high; it is a noble picture.

Jaime stands, and waits for Loras to draw even. He is taller, and he knows well his own countenance.

And he is tired. He stands before Loras because he has not the energy to fight, nor to flee.

He has never been one to flee, in any case.

Loras falters. Halts.

With his left hand, Jaime reaches out. He draws Loras's sword from its sheath, his arm only quaking a little. Between them, he raises the blade.

"How well you draw on your honor," he remarks. "And how quickly."

"As any of good conscience might," Loras retorts, though his cheeks flame.

Jaime, again carefully, sets the blade on his desk, naked. "So they may." He seats himself, and gestures to Loras to do likewise. "But this is not a day for blood."

Loras shifts on his feet, eyes him. He does not sit. Jaime does not expect him to.

"Speak," he near-commands. "I will answer as I may."

There is a length of silence, broken by awkward exhalations. There is indignance in Loras's eyes, and much resentment. In the end, however, he does not speak. He catches up his blade, sheathes it, and exits.

At his exit, Jaime smiles. He raises his quill, and resumes his pained penmanship. If not today, then maybe tomorrow, or the day after.

It is hard-won, but Jaime can wield patience just as well.


End file.
